Child of Nature
by Amarantus
Summary: The love of natural science and studying have been with him all his life...and so was the death of his mother. Lady Crane had a gift and she did everything she could to give it to her son. And it cost her her time, her strength and her life.
1. Chapter 1

_Honour thy father and thy mother, they say. Well I say that we should honour and respect only those who deserve it. This so-called rule makes no sense to me at all and I believe that it should be discussed from a philosophical point of view. Letʼs take an example of a young girl from a poor family who is sold by her parents to a pimp; how can she find any ounce of respect for them in her being? How must she be feeling? Betrayed, abandoned, unloved, abused, and, considering her future work, raped? Do those parents deserve to be honoured? I think not. Her hatred for them is a product of their bad decisions, not hers. It is obvious that her life is going to be full of misery, danger, and after a decade of whoring herself, she will become nothing more than a waif with a painted face, standing in a dark alley and giving what is left of her body in order earn something to eat. Of course, if her pimp doesnʼt take everything she had earned. Hereʼs another example: a boy left to fend for himself in the street. His parents have had too many children and they had to get rid of him, for there was no way for them to feed and clothe him anymore. Is that responsible behaviour? Not to mention the fact that the other children were sent to slave in mines in order to bring some money home. A burgeois would probably ask _Why did they make so many children? Isnʼt there another way for them to solve their problems? _No, there isnʼt. There is no fairy to wave her wand and make it all go away. But now Iʼm going into general topics, so Iʼll return to the original problem. What I am trying to say is that there are no real obligations of uncondiotional love in families, like we believe there are. Throughout history, royals and nobles were slaughtering their kith and kin just to get their hands on fortune, title, rank or throne. This proves that they didnʼt feel any need for mutual love and respect, which automatically means that the myth of love in families is utter nonsense._

_I loved my mother because I admired her strength, warmth, imagination and kindness. She loved me because I was her treasure and the only light point of her life. When these reasons combined, they formed a bond which we call love. Pure simple reasons, cause and consequence, not the usual need to force oneself to love just because it was expected by others and because it was in accordance with the _mores _of our society. But the man who sired me, for I refuse to call him father as he is unworthy of the name, took that precious creature away from me. I still remember how I used to hide under the table as he would shout at her and call her the slut of Satan. I was afraid. Very afraid. And it would only get worse when he started to beat her. She would try to defend herself, but he was too strong. And at the end of each beating, when she was lying on the floor, he would haul her up and take her to their bedroom, and he would always lock the door behind them. I wasnʼt sure at the time what he was doing to her in there, but I could only hear more screams and the sound of clothes ripping. As I got older, when I learned the truth, I got the urge to gauge that manʼs eyes out and then prepare him for a vivisection. _

_These are the reasons why I hate him, for they are more than justified, and that is how I proved that love between people is not necessarily linked by the fact that they are of the same flesh and blood. _

_As I am writing this, I am gazing at the full moon and the night sky. During every full moon, mother would sneak out with me and we would run in the forest, protected by the darkness. I would hear the howling of the lonely wolf. –Do you hear it, Ichabod? Our familiar is saluting us!_

_And then she would howl back. As she did that, I noticed how there were wolves slowly emerging from the bush around us. They would approach her and she would caress their fur. It was obvious that she was their mistress and I their future master. She was so full of joy to see them and she would sing a song in a language I have never heard before. And as she did, all the flowers around us would open their petals towards the shining moon. Those were the nights were I knew that my mother was the most wonderful person in the world, Nature incarnate that came to honour the world with her presence and has chosen me to be her apprentice. Magical, yes, magnificent, absolutely. But mortal, nonetheless. _

_Bruises could be seen on her arms, calves and thighs, and that is why she would always wear long-sleeved heavy dresses even in summer. After she was executed, every time I would pass next to the church, I would spit on the ground and mumble a few curses in Latin, the language my mother taught me with such love and patience. It became my mission and duty to protect freethinkers and the innocent from the tyranny of the fanatics and the stupid. That was a vow I made when I placed a lock of my hair on her grave. She was buried on a crossroad, the place where they always put the bodies of criminals and witches, so their souls could be lost and wandering forever, with no chance of ever coming back to haunt those who took their life away in the name of a nonexistent god._

_There was a man brought in today, accused of murder of his brother and wife. There is a witness that says that he shot them both when he caught them fornicating, but there is something not right with his story, considering the fact that the accused man has never used a gun or pistol in his life and the obvious fact that he is missing an index and a middle finger on his right hand, which he lost in a violent fight only a month ago. They say that he must have shot him with his left hand, but how could a man, who has used only his right hand all his life, become so deft with is left in only a monthʼs time? I have to abandon these writings for now and read through the whole case once more, in hope that I can help the poor wretch._

_Ichabod Crane, November 13th, 1795_


	2. Chapter 2

The chapel was dark and there were only a few candles lit. The old wooden benches were empty, the cushions on them were old and their former red color had turned light pink. The walls were full of scenes depicting Judgement Day, fires of hell and screaming sinners in agony, the crucifixion of Christ and devils tearing women apart. It was cold because the upper window had a crack in it and the cold November wind was blowing inside, chilling and freezing the whole chapel. The scent of cold air was mixed with a stale perfume of candlewax. The whole scene was rather ghastly, and young Ichabod was sitting on one of the benches and reading the Bible. The poor boyʼs hands were trembling and were light blue in colour, meaning that he was probably freezing to death. His eyes were bloodshot and there were lavender circles around them. His face, instead of being rosy and chubby, was pale and gaunt, and his cheekbones were very prominent. And there was fear in his eyes. Fear and angst.

He could take it no more and he put the book next to him on the bench. He brought his hands in front of his mouth and blew at them and rubbed them to catch some warmth and get his blood to run normally through them again. He looked around him nervously, as if he was expecting something to pounce on him. Suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching and he quickly picked up the Bible and continued where he stopped reading. A man with a dark cape and a white wig on his head stood next to Ichabod, a rod in his right hand and a golden cross with rubies around his neck. Ichabod stood up and made the sign of the cross. The man was staring at the boy in such a way that would make a grown man cry. Ichabod was about to sit down, but the man grabbed his shoulder and pulled him from the bench.

-You were skipping pages again, werenʼt you?

-No, pater, I read them all...

-Do you know what happens to little wretches like you how donʼt respect the word of God? They end up in the darkest pits of fire in Hell. Just like your mother will one day.

They boy swallowed hard and repeated. –I didnʼt skip any page of the Vulgate, sir. I had no reason to do that. Please, donʼt be angry.

Old Crane pushed the boy back on the bench and told him that he wont be leaving the chapel until her reads the whole damn thing. The boy was shivering and raising his arms in front of his face for protection. Crane wasnʼt sure whether he should strike the boy or not, and then decided to turn on his heel and leave. Ichabod was left there, all alone in the cold, surrounded by demonic and fearsome images. Any sane man could see that his childhood was horrible enough to mess his mind up for the rest of his life. But it didnʼt have that effect: the boy survived the torture by remembering that the only thing that was important in any life situation, no matter how hard it is, is the experience you get. He promised himself that he will learn how to survive and make his mother proud. He was determined to show his worth to her, that he is fit enough to learn the skills she posessed. Her magic was running in his blood, making him able to survive, use his mind like no other child could and appreciate Nature as if he were her own child. Crane was jealous of this, he could not stand the relationship Ichabod had with Lady Crane. He hated their secrets, their mutual love, their powers. It drove Old Crane mad and it went against everything he believed in.

An hour later, the last of the candles went out and the chapel was left in darkness. Ichabodʼs lower lip trembled and he started to shudder even more, now out of fear instead of the cold. He looked up at the cracked window and he saw the dark leaves that were being blown outside by the cold wind. He had never felt so alone and abandoned. Ichabod closed his eyes and pulled out a piece of paper out of his little pocket. He wasnʼt able to read the words in the dark, but he knew them by heart. _The__ten__secrets,_ as Lady Crane would call them. It was sort of an inside joke because she made the name up by reffering to the Ten Commandments. But these secrets had a different purpose. They contained the basic truths of life that every rational and sensible person could realise without any divine revelation. Lady Crane said that full comprehension comes from the combined efforts of mind and heart. That was the way her magic worked.

Ichabod pressed the paper to his heart and squeezed his eyes shut. He thought about love and warmth, tiny particles of air accelerating and turning bright orange, colliding with each other and forming heat. He used all his concentration that remained, focused all his strength on his task. Then he opened his eyes and smiled when he saw that all the candles in the chapel were lit again.

He placed the paper on his lap and started reading the lines again.

_1795._

_New York looked dreadful at these late autumn nights. As a constable, it was my duty to patrol around the dark alleys and search for potential trouble and wrongdoings. But there was nothing of the sort in the streets, they were practically empty. No wonder, what warmblooded mammal in its right mind would stay out in this November cold? I was not very keen on contracting a cold, or, even worse, pneumonia. Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me and I turned around. As you have already predicted, there was nobody there. Refusing to let myself fall in that Gothic novel trap, I just continued walking and didnʼt mind the footsteps behind me anymore. But after a few minutes I heard moaning and I turned around again. For the first few moments there was nothing there, but then a gust of black smoke appeared in front of my face and it enveloped me. I started yelling and calling for help, but there was nothing and nobody near me. There was only the dreadful, unearthly darkness. I felt something enter my mind and I started seeing images that made my heart skip a few beats. The darkness burned me, scratched at my skin, pierced my heart with shocking memories and the pain of another person. I realized that the this darkness must be some kind of a ghost or revenant. Impossible, ghosts do not exist. Not in this age, when a new era of science and reason is upon us! But then another wave pierced me and I gave out a cry of pain. I was shuddering and I put my arms around my shoulders and tried to used my reason to handle this problem. Alright, suppose for the time being that ghosts were real. What upsets them? Their past, their unfinished business, their memories of their death or murder. Maybe the arenʼt sure about the fact whether or not they are really dead. Perhaps I should attempt to communicate with it...The situation was so absurd that I felt ashamed and silly._

_-My name is Ichabod Crane. I...I mean you no harm, spirit. Uhm, tell me what is it that troubles you. My job is to help people and I am sure we can work something out._

_The moaning returned again and I felt the darkness enter my mind again. I saw a young woman being starngled in this alley by two strong men. She couldnʼt have been over sixteen. Her face was dirty and she was wearing rags, meaning that she was poor. When she was finally dead, the two men started arguing which one of them was going to have his way with her corpse first. But then they heard people coming by and they quickly hid the corpse under a big pile of trash and they ran away. Two years had passed since that event and her corpse was still there...or should I say here?_

_The darkness squeezed itself out of my head and it detached from my body. I could not believe what I had just seen and I made a few steps forward and I collapsed._

_When I woke up, it was early morning and people were starting to go to work. I got up quickly and looked around me. What the hell happened last night? I looked around the alley and I found a niche in one of the walls that was full of old garbage and boards. I froze on the spot and I felt my heart sink. I approached the pile reluctantly and pulled out a handkerchief and put it on my nose. I started removing the boards, the old clothes, food leftovers and bricks. There was definately something festering beneath all that, because the smell was getting worse and worse. To my horror, I found myself face to face with a rotten face with maggots for eyes. I made a girly scream and I immediately pulled out my bell and started ringing it with all the strength I could muster. Another policeman arived in a few minutes and he gasped when he saw the sight._

_-Good Lord, what the fuck?_

_I turned around slowly and I didnʼt even make two steps before I vomited. I needed to get home and have some sleep. And erase this idea of ghosts out of my head. I pulled out the paper I had had in my pocket for so many years and I read the first _secret _my mother wrote so long ago:_

_ 1. The spirits of the dead exist and are always watching upon us._


	3. Chapter 3

_It was absurd. Death was, by my definition, an end of bodily existence and, therefore, the existence of the mind. When the organs cease to function, and the heart stops pumping the precious liquid we call blood through our veins, our body has nothing left to feed it and continue its life. The brain is left to fend for itself, and soon it starts to die and rot. There is nothing left behind but the memories of those who were aware of the deceased personʼs existence, and those who harboured both positive and negative emotions for them. And yet, I am still loosing my sleep because of the fact that I have been mind-raped by a fucking ghost! I havenʼt been on duty for two weeks. For two weeks I have been lying on my bed and staring at the little paper my mother gave me, constantly staring at the line that states that spirits exist. I kept the paper as a memory, not as a personal code. I fought the urge to throw it away and forget the whole thing, to return to the real world and start communicating with human beings again, but I couldnʼt find the strength to get rid of it. _

_November was reaching its end, and December was right around the corner. The only thing I liked about December was the dark snowy nights and the smell of the air. But all the other holiday nonsense was really getting on my nerve, when all the burgeois were marching to their parish church to pray for their puny little souls to be saved, while at the same time ignoring all the poor and starving creatures that were dying on their doorstep. December was a truly disgusting month that encompassed both death and hypocrisy. What a perfect time for singing Christmas carols..._

_The body was there, it was real, and I couldnʼt give any reasonable explanation as to how I found out about it. What was I supposed to say to my superior officer, that the girlʼs ghost showed me the resting place of her remains? But why me, why not somebody else? A lot of people must have past by the corpse in the past two years, and why didnʼt she contact them? She was silent for so long, alone in that place, covered by garbage, forgotten by all. No matter what this ghost situation might be, I am glad that I was able to give her the opportunity to be taken away from that grave of shame and despair._

_Ichabod Crane, November 28th, 1795._

Crossroads didnʼt have a good reputation. Some said that they were the place where the energies of the world where caught in a whirlwind, mixed up and stopped from flowing normally. Some say that men have often made their pact with the Devil on crossroads, or have been engaged in other godless rituals. In other words, crossroads had a very bad reputation. That is why most criminals that were sentenced to death were buried there: so their souls would be caught in the whirlwind of energies, thus making them unable to find peace or return to the world of the living. The same rule applied to witches or other beings of the similar kind. But we were at the end of the 18th century, which was characterized by its value of reason, inborn human rights and freedom, tolerance, et cetera. The Age of Enlightenment could not possibly stand these superstitions. Could it? Europe has already abandoned, and has forbade, the practice of hunting and burning witches, desecrating graves in search of vampires, mutilating the bodies of those who were accused of being werewolves or vampires, and we were entering a new era. But some places, like the place where young Ichabod had the displeasure of being born into, were still very conservative and attached to the old ways.

Ichabod was sitting on the ground and staring at the fresh unmarked grave of a hanged woman. She had been a newcomer, a freethinker. Too educated for a woman, as Old Crane would say. It wasnʼt long before a man from the village proposed to her. She refused him, stating that she was a widow and that she could accept his offer because of the memory of her late husband. Her name was Mary Ann. Ichabod remembered her as a very charming and witty woman, with a very bright look in her eyes. She would give Ichabod sweets when he would cross paths with her and she gave him a copy of _Gargantua __and __Pantagruel _once, with a wink and a smile.

-What is it about, Lady Mary Ann?

-It is a satyre of the medieval frame of mind. The man who wrote it, François Rabelais, was a great intellectual, but was prosecuted because of his so-called heretic views. He influenced the creation of the Renaissance frame of mind, when the world was full of possibilities, everything was in the hands of man and man alone, not God. Science flourished, art and literature were concentrating themselves on the heritage of Rome and Ancient Greece. It was the age of polymaths and geniuses, my dear Ichabod. A great era, and my personal favourite. Europe is returning to a similar condition now with its philosophers and mathematicians.

For Ichabod, it was the equivalent of Paradise.

Soon, the man whom Mary Ann refused, started accusing her of practising witchcraft. Old Crane gave out a warrant to arrest her on the grounds of casting hurtful spells, fornicating with demons and having a close relationship with the Devil. Her trial took weeks. She was tortured in the same way the Inquisition would torture her in 16th century Spain. Her screams could be heard daily, when her bones were broken, fingernails plucked out, water poured in her stomach trough a tube... And she signed her confession, half-dead, when she could take the pain no longer. She was dragged to the scaffold, the noose was put around her thin neck, and her life was extinguished within the next few seconds.

As Ichabod sat in front of her grave, he started caressing the soil, while tears trickled down his pale face. _She __was __innocent, _he repeated to himself. _Innocent!_ How could he trust those who have killed her? What guarantee did he have that Lady Crane wonʼt live to see a similar fate, maybe even worse? She actually _did _have powers, and that brought her in even more danger.

It started to thunder and young Ichabod continued his mourning of the innocent Mary Ann...


	4. Chapter 4

_The spirits of the dead exist and are always watching upon us._

_Every man is responsible for his own actions and has no right to blame someone else, or an arcane entity, for his doings._

_Every life is sacred and deserves to be cherished._

_Nature is our Mother and our goal is to protect and love all her creatures._

_Respect the beliefs of others and learn what you can from them._

_See to it that you are always ready to help, protect and love those that share the same Earth with you._

_Learn, experience, discover. Knowledge is the greatest treasure you can obtain._

_Never repeat the mistakes from Mankindʼs Dark Past._

_Never let anyone crush your spirit. _

_And, my son, make it your mission to spread goodness in the world._

_Will she ever embrace me again? Was her spirit gone forever? Were those ten lines all that was left of her? That woman was the one that had opened my eyes and showed me a world where there was place for everyone, no matter what they believed in, what their origins were, in other words, she showed me that paradise was not something we had to wait for in the afterlife, but that it was possible to create it in this world. I was spending my third week off duty, still in bed, but this time I was in a very interesting state of mind. She was dancing in front of my eyes all the time, it didnʼt matter whether they were closed or not. I havenʼt changed my clothes and they were all sweaty and worn out, my hair was greasy and in little knots, and all my limbs were sore because I havenʼt moved them for days. I was just lying there and staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. My brain did not have the strength to analyse the situation anymore and I surrendered to the pain that has been building up and eating me from the inside for years. Death...I was reeking of death. And sorrow. _

Snowflakes were fascinating little things; so fragile, yet they looked like they had the perfect structure, the epitome of symmetry, that could not be destroyed by any weapon. And they were all unique, every little flake had its own shape. Many of us have had the habit of catching them in our mouths when they would start falling from the white heavens. Thousands and thousands of snowflakes would collide with others that were already on the ground and, after a few hours, they would form a white blanket that was spread on every single thing, leaving nothing uncovered. She too was dressed in white, which matched her pale skin, and the only things that set her apart from the whiteness were her dark eyes and her brown hair. It was early still, and her son was still sleeping in the house. Good thing that he was finally getting some rest, for he had spent two days sitting on the grave of Mary Ann, refusing to leave. Several men tried to take him away, but Ichabod just kept kicking and biting them, screaming and scratching at their eyes, until they finally gave up and left him there. Ichabod was still in shock, he refused to say any prayer before he went to sleep and he did not want to see his father. Crane himself was taken aback when he saw the unnatural sparkle in the boy's eyes, recognizing the latent magic streak he had inherited from his mother. Lady Crane was in great concern because of this; the boy's mood affected the weather and first there were thunder and rain, followed by blizzards. But, since he was asleep that morning, there was nothing more than gentle snowflakes.

The tall trees and the bushes were all covered in snow, and the wind blew with such delicacy, as if it was reluctant to disturb such a blissful sight. Lady Crane pressed her hand against the bark of one of the nearby trees and felt its roughness on her skin. That same tree would wake again from its slumber in spring, ready to burst forth its new leaves and bask in the sunlight again. Days will become longer again, the forest critters will run through it again and the sun will warm up their homes. But time was running out for Lady Crane and she knew it. She was only thirty and death was already upon her. It was only a matter of time before she made a wrong step, utter the wrong words or do something that will give him more than enough reasons to accuse her of witchcraft. Till then she had been very careful, she would hide all the scientific books she gave to Ichabod when Crane was around, she never kept any flowers or herbs inside the house, never tried to heal anything by herself and called the unskilled doctor instead, and that kept her from danger. But she knew that Crane was aware of her escapades with ichabod in the forest, the looks they sometimes exchanged. There will come a time when she won't be in the position to hide herself anymore.

Many times she had asked herself what was it she did to deserve such a fate. She was married off to Crane because her parents admired his wealth and reputation, but at the same time she was condemned to living hell. He didn't like the fact that she was smart and capable, he wanted someone pious and submissive. It irritated him that she felt better surrounded by animals and trees instead of people. She was a foreign being to him. And it drove him mad. Things only became worse when she had Ichabod, when Crane noticed the same sparkling eyes the boy shared with his mother. And soon he noticed that she could...do things. Things that were unnatural and unavailable to others.

Crane was cruel and callous by nature, and his wife's behaviour made it even worse. It was obvious that their marriage would end either in the death of one, or they would both perish. So many words, so many tears have been poisoning their minds for so long and none of them was allowed to be happy or feel life. But she had Ichabod, and seeing him smile was all she needed to survive the day.

She looked up and felt the snowflakes touch her face. It was so nice to feel all those sensations. It suddenly came to her that she was going through her last winter, and these were her last moments when she would enjoy the snow in the forest. A few tears trickled down her face as she closed her eyes and whispered her son's name.


	5. Chapter 5

_Truth be told, becoming a constable didnʼt really play a major role in my earlier career plans. It just so happened that I was chosen by our Lady Fortuna, the bitch that makes the world go round, on that dreadful day to be her helpless toy, for she saw it fit to mess with the original scheme the Fates had intended for me, and that is how I took the wrong turn on the crossroads of life. There was no doubt that I was a gifted child, very bright and enthusiastic for my age. But everything comes with a price; a man can have the necessary seed and no soil, but he can also have a fertile piece of land, but no seeds. I was practically left to fend for myself after the execution of my mother...Crane did not really care much for raising a witchʼ spawn, and all that. A woman who used to be a friend to my mother took pity on me and she took me to her house and raised me as her own. Crane would give her a small sum every month for me, but that was it. I was already branded as an outcast. But that didnʼt matter to me. I was in a _de facto_ catatonic state for almost a year and the outside world was like a plethora of phantasmagoric images with no meaning or sense, sounds did not affect me, food had no taste to me, everything looked the same to me. She was gone, the bond was severed, and my being started to wither and die. In order to survive this state of mind, heart and soul, I had to be reborn as a new Ichabod Crane, stronger than the boy who was dying. I had to create a new person and assume its skin. That is how I killed every particle of magic inside me, for it was too painful to live with the memory of my mother. I decided to keep my inborn curiosity and hunger for knowledge, but I had to upgrade them. And that is how I developed my gift for thorough analysis and fast learning. The little magic that was left inside me could still manifest itself in some situations: I could read people just by looking at them, I could still involuntarily light a candle with my mind, the weather would change according to my mood(only if I was getting too emotional) and sometimes I could feel it build up inside me around those with similar gifts, and that would make me have nightmares about my mother._

_The woman was known by the name of Anna Berry, a stout woman and a spinster, but very lovable. She had short greasy red hair, a chubby face with freckles and eyes that were of a dirty shade of green. Her mother had come from Ireland many years ago and married a local. Anna was full of tales from Éire(Ireland) that she had heard from her mother and I have spent years listening about the stories of the children of Lir, the Druids, battles, magical creatures, et cetera. Those stories were beautiful and very emotional, but my mind told me that they were still fiction. Anna wasnʼt offended by this and she decided to send me to a local school because she found it unreasonable to keep me at home and feed me with Celtic myths. And that is how I started my first school years, eventhough I was already proficient in both reading and writing in English, French and Latin, in mathematics, and I knew quite a bit about literature and history, not to mention the natural philosophy, which still occupies a special place in my heart. My classmates were terrified of my appearance( my skin and sunken eyes were the things that mad them shiver as if Death itself was among them) and they avoided me as much as possible. The schoolteacher, a skinny man in shabby clothes and an old wig, did not know what to make of me. He regarded me as some sort of unholy soul in the body of a child, apparently human but not quite. That is how I have spent the first years of my formal education. _

_Anna knew that I was not cut out for manual labour, or any labour, because of the weakness of my body. The mistreatment and malnutrition, for which I have Old Crane to thank, have rendered me a weak and anemic waif that faints whenever he sees anything dead or dangerous. She was saving money for my future education, but that was not enough, and Old Crane didnʼt give a damn anymore when I turned eighteen. My other alternative was to leave the village and move to New York, a great city that was a few kilometers away. I could find work there, save some money after two or three years and go to university to study law or medicine. _

_The city did not welcome me the way I thought it would. The streets were dirty, dangerous and full of poor people. There were immigrants all over the place and for the first few hours I could only hear Dutch and German. I found myself a small flat with a large round window, in which I am still living, and I started to look for work. My knowledge was very useful to me and I have managed to get a few jobs: I was working both as a secretary, translator, rarely as a schoolteacher, and I have been able to persuade the right people to let me watch the dissection of bodies in anatomy class at the local university. I memorized those procedures in my head and was fascinated by the complexity of the human body, the flesh, the nerves, and the enchanting red color of blood. The whole thing was almost romantic to me, and I didnʼt even faint. Quite a marvel(the not fainting part)._

_Two years later I realized that I was still short of money and that I needed a firmer job. The professor that held class told me that he had never seen someone that was so fascinated by corpses like I was, and he said that I would be a wonderful, although temporary, addition to the police with my knowledge. He pulled a few strings and I was employed as a constable. Which I still am now, at the age of twenty two. Sad, isnʼt it? The way people have to work to get enough money for their education..._

_But I did get myself quite a reputation, eventhough I have only been working like that for two years. Well, that is it for my career life for now, and I hope that I will soon get off of these streets and return to my proper place at the university._

_Ichabod Crane, January 19th, 1796._


	6. Chapter 6

Storms. Tempests. Powerful manifestations of the power of Nature, that encompassed rain, dark clouds, thunder and lightning. Sometimes even ferocious winds that could destroy a small cottage. Eventhough storms were a normal natural occurence, and were more than necessary to sustain life, they had a tendency to inspire fear and superstition in the hearts of men and women whose life depended on crops. Some people viewed them as a sign of danger, witchcraft, death, and what not. But violent storms were also very frightening to little children. And young Ichabod Crane was no exception.

The boy could not stand the sound of thunder and the vibrations he would feel coming from the floor. He would start to cry and hyperventillate. Hiding under the table and putting his hands over his ears was also one of his usual activities during a storm. Even when there was no rain and only thunder, he would still have a nervous breakdown. Whenever he saw a dark cloud in the sky he would run to his house, close all windows and doors, light all candles and wrap himself up in a blanket under the kitchen table. Old Crane enjoyed these little moments which were solid proof that even Ichabod could not embrace natural occurrences in all their power and ferocity. We all have our fears, and sometimes we fear the things that we love.

It was late February and storms like that were a normal thing, especially in that Northern region where winter sometimes lasted longer than it should, and some say that they have seen snow in March. It was still very cold and it was difficult to breathe that thick cold air. Peasants were having trouble with the livestock that had to be kept warm and protected from getting ill, women and maids were worried about their gardens and trees that were sometimes ruined and plucked out of their roots respectively by the strong winds, which meant that there will be no fruit and vegetables later in the year to sustain them or to sell at the market. The schoolboys and the class master had their problems as well; the school building was a little shabby cottage with cracked windows and thin walls, which allowed the cold to penetrate the classroom with ease and chill the students to the bone; as if they were not already chilled enough when they had to think about avoiding the rod of the class master. Some of the weaker and skinnier ones would die of pneumonia in those cold days; the classroom had the habit of being half-empty by the beginning of April. Ichabod was still kept at home at the time, only to be sent to school later by Anna Berry.

Their servant woman was sick that day and Lady Crane had asked Anna to come and prepare the meals for them for the time being. Anna dragged her corpulent body in the kitchen and started to prepare the necessary ingredients while Lady Crane sat at the small table where the servants usually ate. Her face had changed; her expression was weary, her eyes were red and her lips were dry and cracked.

-Why, Madam, are you ill? There it is, I leave for a week and you turn into a walking corpse. Pardon me for my straightforwardness, Madam, but it is true.

-Really, Anna, there is no cause for concern, it is probably just the weather.

-Madam, I have known you since you were a young girl that had enough strength to run about in the middle of a storm and greet the gale with such ardour that is rare to find. No weather can bring you in this state, so do not even try to lie to me. What is wrong? Is it...is he beating you again?

Lady Crane stiffened and averted her gaze from Annaʼs.

-Not as much as he used to. But that is not the problem. It is my son. I do not know what will become of him.

-What do you mean? A clever fine boy like that? He always has his nose stuck in a book and he doesnʼt even need someone to discipline him. I am sure that he will be a great scholar some day. Your husband has enough money to send him to Europe to study.

-That is just the problem. He does not care about Ichabod, he hates him. And I know that my time is almost up and I have nothing to give to the boy but a bad reputation, the hatred of his father and a life full of misery.

-Madam, stop with this nonsense! You gave that boy a soul, you made his heart feel what most people never will, and you shaped his mind into that of a genius. In other words, you created a young human being par excellence. And what is this about your time being up? You just said that...

-Anna, I know.

Lady Crane said that in an authoritative voice and Anna knew better than to press the matter. She started the fire and continued her work.

-Anna? May I ask you something?

-Of course.

-If...if something happens to me, I would like you to take care of Ichabod. Please, he means the world to me and he is still so young...

-Madam, you know that I would do anything for you.

-Thank you.

The weather worsened in the late afternoon and it became almost unbearable by the evening. The boards of the house were squeeking, the heavy rain was creating a horrible noise in the contact with windows, the animals in the barn were beside themselves. Ichabod was having one of his tantrums again and he refused to crawl out of his hiding place. Fear experienced by a child is far more intense than that of an adult; children are wont to imagine that the storms exist only for hurting or scaring them, they are afraid that their house will be blown away, they are afraid of an early death brought to them by an evil demon that created the storm. Ichabod was afraid of its destructive nature, eventhough he was told countless times that rain was more than needed to the people. But he could not help it, the fear was a part of him and he couldnʼt do anything about it. As the hours passed, he felt himself growing weaker and weaker. It was consuming his very being.

-Ichabod! Darling, where are you?

He heard a tender voice, full of love...he knew that it was hers.

-I have a present for you. You just have to come out and see it. Mi fili, veni ad me. Quid, non vis videre donum tuum?

-Leave me alone!

And so, after thirty minutes of calling, begging and bribing, she finally managed to get him out and bring him in his bed. He was trembling and sobbing, unable to calm himself down. She was caressing his cheek and whispering words of comfort in his ear. She put him under the covers and gave him an extra blanket, so he could feel warm and safe. But the noise from outside was still frightening him.

-Are all the cats inside, Mother?

-Yes.

-Will the horses be alright?

-Shhh, they are fine, I guarantee it.

It thundered and Ichabod let out a silent squeek and covered his face with the blanket. Lady Crane sighed and mumbled something to herself. But then her face brightened and she reached for her pocket. –Ichabod, do you still want to see your present?

The boy moved the covers from his eyes and looked at his smiling mother. She was holding a very unusual thing, sort of a picture on a string. She showed him a red bird on one side and a cage on the other. This made the boy curious and a he made a smile, eager to see what she will do next. She held both sides of the string and started to spin it with her fingers. As she did that, both sides, the bird and the cage, started turning at such a speed that they became one. Suddenly, the red bird found itself in the cage. This was very amusing for the boy and he could not help but marvel at such a thing.

-See? No storm can hurt you, my love, as long as you look for the little joys that are hidden all around you.


	7. Chapter 7

_Nobody is immune to irrational fears. It is possible to conquer fear by rationalizing it and finding its roots, but the body doesnʼt care about the conclusions the mind made. It would take a huge amount of concentration to still your beating heart, to make your lungs stop begging for more oxygen, to stop blood from leaving the extremities and the stomach. Fear is one of the few of our characteristics, along with the urge to procreate and feed, that reminds us that we are no different than animals, no matter what some philosophers say about the role of mankind. Fear is supposed to keep us alive, prepare our body to run away from something dangerous or to fight it. Crime is still present in our times, but we are no longer living in that barbaric ʺhomo homini lupusʺ age, where living is reduced to mere surviving. Fear is useful when it is justified, but it can be more than inconvenient when we start making a fuss because of a spider on the wall, a dark room, or maybe even a strict professor. But, what **is **fear in reality? Is it just an emotion that creates a bodily reaction, or is it something that is only connected with the will of our flesh to protect itself from something that might injure it? Something that has nothing to do with our emotions? Love was sometimes described as a sickness in the past; a sweet pain that makes the healthy eyes blind and enslaves the heart. I hold Petrarca especially responsible for that notion. As I was thinking about this, William Talbot, a young medical student I was assisting in his anatomy studies, was removing the cranial lid from one of our study corpses and trying to take notes without smudging the paper. There were small dusty bottles filled with chemicals all around the room, Williamʼs notebooks were all over my desk, and the only source of natural light was a small window. Too much light would compromise the chemicals. _

_-Are you almost done, Will? Professor Austen really needs that manʼs skull, you know how it is; they took a lot of our bodies away because the families wanted them back, and the kids have nothing to study on anymore. Seventy of them are studying the bones on one skeleton!_

_-I am working on it, Crane. But I have to do this the right way, I canʼt just butcher it and rip the skull away from the body._

_-Wonderful, and because of your meticulous behaviour I have to spend my whole afternoon with you._

_-Nobody is holding you._

_-I will get in trouble if I leave you alone._

_-Itʼs not my fault you are not a regular student here._

_-I donʼt have the money for the books and other supplies. I am barely making a living as a constable._

_He got up from the body and made a grin. –You know...with all that police work youʼre involved with, maybe you could supply us with a few more bodies._

_-I am not going to steal bodies for you! _

_It took him two more hours for the process to finish, and then I had to clean up with him. He was a smart lad, a bit arrogant, but that didnʼt matter much. His true goal was to either continue his studies and one day become a professor, or to establish himself as a chemist. Being a simple doctor was not enough for him, and neither would it be for me. With our scarce knowledge of the natural world and our prejudgemental frames of mind, we would not even be able to practice medicine without killing the patient. Research was of crucial importance. But for that we have to be objective and refuse to accept the current concepts that talk about the existence of the _vis vitalis _and similar nonsense. We have to create a new approach to the study of natural philosophy and only then will we be able to make progress. _

_It was raining heavily outside, and I had nothing on myself but my thin coat and a sack of notebooks. William stood next to me on the entrance and made a slight whistling sound._

_-This was unexpected._

_-We wouldnʼt be in this mess if you had finished earlier._

_-Shut up, Crane. We are just going to have to wait here for the rain to stop, we have no other option. _

_Spring was just around the corner, and those showers were quite frequent in March. The natural world was coming back to life and feeding itself with rain. _

_-You know, William, I used to be terrified of storms._

_-I thought that cold heart of yours had no room for fear._

_-You would be surprised. The mere sound of thunder would induce a nervous breakdown in me. It was quite embarassing._

_-What made you get over that fear?_

_-...My mother, Lady Crane. She drove all my fears away. And took my pain and made it her own. That was before she died in the most horrible way._

_-What happened?_

_-Those were still the times when they were searching for witches. And even then the whole practice was out-of-date. In Europe they stopped with that nonsense by the order of Empress Maria Theresia. But there was this man in our village that had complete control over the people, who were religious to the point of fanatic, and they were still...well, you can only guess how it was to live in constant fear of getting killed by a bunch of lunatics. My mother was accused of witchcraft, condemned and put inside of an iron maiden. The trick with that torture device is to pierce and create pain, but not to kill immediately. She was left there to bleed to death. After that they burned her body._

_-Dear Lord._

_-When the governor found out about these practices, and it took him a few more years after my motherʼs death to get that information, he brought that man in front of a special court. Those executions were nothing more than murders. The man was sentenced to be hanged by the neck until death. And that man was my father. _

_William just stared at me for a few moments and then he put his right arm around my shoulder, probably thinking that his gesture would comfort me._

Author's note:

_Reviews would make me very happy. I would really like to know your opinions and I am open for suggestions for the story. I am very greatful to all those who read this story, and I would especially like to thank those who reviewed and faved it. I love you all, you are the main reason why I write! _


	8. Chapter 8

Old Crane sighed and sat down at his desk. His hands were still shaking and his stomach hurt as if there was someone piercing it with a sword. _What have I done..._, he thought. Truth be told, getting rid of her had been his plan for a very long time, and he was watching her every move like a patient spider in order to catch her in his web. Now that the deed was done, he felt no satisfaction, only fear. That boy, no, that little warlock was going to get back at him. Now that she was gone, there was nothing and nobody left to restrain the boyʼs rage. Ichabod hasnʼt said a word since the execution, but his stare was worth a million words and even more screams. Crane could tell that there was darkness building up in the boy, darkness that was personally created by him, making it even more sinister. Ichabod had suffered with her when her flesh was spiked, he could hear the blood that was flowing from her veins, he could sense her warm tears as they fell off her cheeks. A part of him died with her, a part of him shared that last breath with her. Ichabod had been there in the chapel, watching the torture chamber that contained the corpse of his mother. He had locked the doors of the chapel from the inside so no one could take his final moments with Lady Crane away from him. His father was banging on them and trying to break in.

Ichabod had sat on the floor and hugged his knees to him. He was completely numb. It took Crane a whole hour to get the doors out of their hinges and barge in the only sanctuary Ichabod had left. He tried to grab the boy by the hair but, to his astonishment, Ichabod grabbed him by the wrist with such force that made Crane turn a few shades paler. Ichabod had stood up, still holding the manʼs wrist. His eyes had changed, they did not belong to a child anymore.

-Let go, you demon!

-Demon? Well, sir, if I am a demon, then why should I take orders from an insignificant being such as yourself?

-I am your father! Do as I say!

-Hmmm...I am afraid that that will be impossible to arrange. From now on, I am the one who is going to be giving orders around here.

The most disturbing part of the whole scene was the fact that this was a child we were dealing with. A child with the mind of a very disturbed adult that has no mercy when it comes to revenge. Crane tried to release his hand, but Ichabodʼs grip only got tighter, and soon Crane couldnʼt feel his hand anymore.

-The others will come looking for me, and then you are going to be in a lot of trouble, boy.

-Be quiet, I am trying to think of the first order to give you.

-Bastard!

-How about this one: stop breathing!

Before Crane could even react he felt a pressure against his chest, as if there was someone sitting on it, and he felt his lungs shrinking. He tried to say something, but he could not even find the strength to open his mouth. He grabbed his chest with his other hand. He needed to breathe in, he desperately wanted air. Ichabod didnʼt even blink as he watched him. After a few more seconds, Crane felt that his lungs had been released and he started to hyperventilate. He looked at Ichabod.

-Dear father, you didnʼt think that I was going to let you die just like that, now did you? No, death would be a mild punishment for you. I am going to make you suffer for the rest of your days.

Those words had carved themselves in Craneʼs mind and condemned him to live in constant fear of the boy. He knew very well that he had to get Ichabod out of his house before something even worse happens, and so the boy was sent to live with that Berry woman. But sending Ichabod away did not help. Crane was still experiencing the manifestations of the boyʼs curse. Ichabod had been sending him horrible nightmares every night, that involved Crane drowning in a pool of blood and being attacked by a bunch of living corpses, and sometimes he was being eaten alive by rats. He soon discovered that every book he owned had changed its contents, and the only words present in them were _murderer_, _damnation _and _death._ All of his servants had fallen ill and they left the house. Candles were going on and off every night, chairs had been falling apart in front of his very eyes, and even his food would turn rotten every time he touched it. In short, his life had become unbearable. The worst of all was that the palms of his hands were full of little red dots, as if he had injured himself with spikes. Just like the ones that killed his wife...

Oh, how he had wished to die. Even death was better than this cursed life that was making him insane. He couldnʼt even find solace in his religion, and every time he would try to pray the only sounds that would come out of his mouth were the screams of Lady Crane. Old Crane had even tried to commit suicide, but to no avail: all of his wounds would heal in a matter of seconds. Ichabod did not even allow him to die in peace by his own hand; only by the hands of other people. His only comfort was the fact that the boy had not spoken a word since their chapel incident, for he could not bear to hear that voice again, or have to look into those eyes. But the monster was still there, eventhough it was concealed for the moment. And that monster was probably ready to chase him down even in his afterlife. _What have I done_...


End file.
